Page 6 of The Taking of House Westwood

“Do you want it girl, hmm?” He so loved to torment a girl, confusing her mind with a mixture of pleasure and pain.

“Please, Sir! Please!” Her hands clenched into tight helpless fists at the apex of her back.

“Please what, girl? Tell me! I want to hear you say it.” He pumped his fingers as deep as they would go, and she cried out. Again, he worried the hard, swollen clit.

“I want to. I want to come, Sir,” she panted, her hips rotating, thighs taut.

With a pinch to her clit, she went over, shrieking into the sheets of the mattress. He smiled as he felt her moisture running down his wrists to drip onto the sheets. Her scent filled the air, and he reveled in it. He bade her turn back around, a hand in her hair to guide her where he wanted her.

He wiped the tears from her cheeks with a thumb as she took his shaft between the heated bliss of her swollen red lips. His wife’s scent was still on her as the girl knelt over him, and that set him to thrusting into that accommodating mouth. All too soon, the boiling pressure from behind his testicles rushed up, his harsh grunts heralding his climax. As he poured his seed down the girl’s throat, he thought wistfully of how long it had been since he’d had Miriam the same way.

He resolved that things at Westwood Manor would be changing when he returned from his journey.

Chapter Three

McClearn Farmsteaa

It was her favorite time of the day — watching Owen. She made a sport of sneaking glances at the farmhand’s broad back as he mucked out the milking stalls. His trousers, stretched tightly over that trim, firm backside drew her eye as well, but she was ever afraid his quick glances back at her might catch her in the act. Her father would stripe her backside himself if he knew she was so much as thinking about glancing at one of the hands, so she’d learned to keep her admiration discreet.

“You’d better hurry, Sophie”. Owen leaned on his rake, his chest heaving. “Rory’ll be here any minute. If you aren’t done with those cows, he’s sure to let you have it.”

Sophie knelt down next to the last cow, pulling her shift up to keep what muck she could off of its hem. “You just worry about yourself, Owen. You still have two stalls to go you know.”

“Want to race? See who gets their work done first?”

Sophie shook her head, her dark locks swaying. “Not a chance. Just get your work done, boy.”

“Boy? Is that all I am to you?” Owen flashed her his fetchingly crooked grin, and Sophie felt a fluttering low in her belly.

He bent to push another full rake of muck into the wash channel. “What do I get if I win?”

“I never said I was racing you, Owen.” She squeezed out some of the slippery udder cream onto her fingers, then reached under to coat the pendant nipples of the cow. Mooing greeted her ministrations.

Owen smacked the edge of the steel rake against the stall enclosure to clear the offal from its tines. “Tell you what. If I win, I will be at your service the rest of the afternoon. I’ll do all your chores along with mine.”

She laughed, trying to ignore the imagery that popped into her head at his use of the word ‘service’. “And what do you get if you win? I can’t very well do your chores. I can’t even move one of those hay bales.”

He stood with his arms crossed over a strong chest, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “A kiss.”

Her mouth dropped open. She snapped it shut, fearing she resembled a landed fish. “You — can’t be serious.”

“What’s the matter, Sophie? Afraid you won’t win — or afraid you will?”

Damn him.

His whiskey colored eyes gazed at her from under sun-bleached brows, his sandy hair mussed and sweaty. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through that thick hair.

“Owen —”

A clatter of hooves arose outside the barn, along with the raised voices of the other farmhands. Owen’s confident, mischievous gaze changed to one of puzzlement as he looked beyond Sophie into the yard outside the barn.

Sophie stood, leaning her arms on the placid cow she’d been tending. Several riders had entered the farmyard. At least four of the riders were armed and armored, sunlight glinting off burnished plate mail. One rider stood out from the rest.

It was a woman.

Dressed in a bright white blouse, with tan jodhpurs tucked into black leather boots, she appeared as someone out for an afternoon jaunt. The short sword at her hip belied that notion though. The woman dismounted without help from any of her men. Two of the soldiers joined her, the others remaining mounted.

Rory, the barrel-chested steward of the farm, walked up to greet the woman, clasping her hand and bowing deep. The steward and the woman exchanged some words, but they were too far away for Sophie to make out what was being said. The woman gestured expansively with her hand, and the steward nodded, smiling.

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